Some People Collect Stamps.

This dude: fire trucks. Badass.

No Bugles!

Whoa Baby.

A group in LA purchases Mr. T’s, a former bowling alley turned punk-rock dive that’s in complete disarray. They decide to restore it to its original Prohibition-era state. They go all in, from the original pinball machines to the original pennants lining the walls, to creating chandeliers out of antique pin setter machines. Since they’re going to hell anyway, why not?

The result: the coolest bowling alley in the country.

It re-opens tomorrow night, with its original name: Highland Park Bowl. The menu includes Neopolitan pizzas and classic cocktails. Next year, they’re adding a microbrewery. But just check out the renovation. It’s mind-blowing. Who wants to leave the Matrix?

Proud Of This Girl.

I make my niece wear my Fitbit during her soccer games while I sit on the sideline eating snacks.

She gets me. And when she asked me for help applying for the drama program at her school, I figured I owed her. The program has incredibly stringent standards, so twice I made her rewrite the section of the application that asked her why she wanted to act.

She got in. I’m almost as excited as she is.

My niece is at a tricky age (she turns twelve next week), trying to figure out what she’s into and how she fits in. Twelve-year-olds can be even more critical of themselves than their peers. One minute she’s a child, and the next a would-be teen. I’m glad that she found something she likes and had to earn her way in.

As for her brother, I’m the complete antithesis of proud after he photo-bombed every take. I clobbered that little shit with a pillow.

Learn From This Woman.

The difference between pizza and your opinion is that I asked for pizza.

But Amy Poehler can chime in any time. I’m nearing the end of her book, Yes Please, and it’s easily one of the best books about having a career in show business. Here’s a passage I really like:

I once was having dinner with an old friend when I was on “SNL”. Baby Mama was coming out and I was in the middle of one of those weird press pushes where your face is on taxis and you’re doing talk shows all the time. My friend went on and on about how weird that was, and asked me if I “could believe it.” “Yes,” I said. I had worked for over a decade to get to this moment. “Can you?” I asked him. 

But I was lucky. Your career and your passion don’t always match up. Plenty of talented people don’t have the careers they want. Plenty of untalented people make millions and make movies. Hard work doesn’t always matter. You can be the best at making contacts and going after jobs, but then suddenly you want it too much, and everybody feels how bad you want it and they don’t want to give it to you. Even at six years old, my son is learning to stop paying attention to the toy he wants. He knows that if he lets on how bad he wants it, his four-year-old brother will snatch that shizz up in a hot second. Pretending not to want something can work. 

The Buddhists call this healthy detachment. Too often we are told to visualize what we want, and cut out pictures of it to create vision boards, and repeat it like a mantra. Positive affirmations are written on our tea bags. I am introducing a new idea: try to care less. Practice ambivalence. Learn to let go of wanting it. Treat your career like a bad boyfriend. 

Here’s the thing: your career won’t take care of you. It won’t call you back or introduce you to your parents. Your career will openly flirt with other people while you are around. It will forget your birthday and wreck your car. It will blow you off it you call it too much, and it’s never going to leave its wife. Your career is banging other people and everyone knows but you. 

But let me make a distinction between career and creativity. Creativity is connected to your passion, that light inside that drives you. That joy that comes when you do something you love. That voice that tells you, “I like this. Do this again. You are good at it. Keep going.” Your creativity is not a bad boyfriend. It is a really warm, older Hispanic lady who has a beautiful laugh and loves to huge. If you are even a little bit nice to her, she will make you feel make you feel great and maybe cook you delicious food.

Weekend With The Shevins.

I go to all of my nephew’s Little League games because it’s important that he knows I’ll swear at other kids, too.

Ricky is just as disturbed as I am to root for a team called the Mets.

Can’t beat that ballpark food, though – especially the post-game batting helmet.

Festive.

I drove to my next-door neighbor’s house to wish him a happy Earth Day.

Okay, actually I made a terrarium. For reals. Here’s mine:

Earth Day!

That’s My Boy.

Not only does Ricky pee on command, but he does it into a planter to preserve his dad’s precious grass. My dog is smarter than your kid.

Throwback Thursday.

Me, at Pudhong International Airport in Shanghai last summer. Before you wonder if you’ll see famous actors at the Acting Café, try the food – the club sandwich contained tuna. Okay, maybe you’ll see Steven Seagal.

Remove The Bug, So You Can Administer It Rectally.

I’m starting to think that this is the last season of America and the writers are just going nuts.

Mainly because people wigged over this SNL sketch from Saturday night:

After it aired, a petition was posted on change.org, calling the sketch “tasteless, cruel and heartless”, and that it poked fun of a very real and deadly drug epidemic in America right now. The petition demands SNL apologize. 8600 people have signed it.

8600 people need to learn the definition of satire. The sketch is satirizing our medicated culture – not so much heroin, but over-the-counter drugs.

Great comedy pushes boundaries. Thank God SNL has been going back to its roots this year, with some darker humor. I was talking with my friend Chad yesterday about the sitcom we’re writing, and we both refuse (or really, don’t know how) to do safe comedy. Want us to write a show you can watch with your kids? Hard pass.

But go right ahead, all 8600 of you – sign away your freedom. You all sound like a delight.

Set Your Ears For Stun.

As the old saying goes, dying is easy and comedy is hard.

Both are in the wheelhouse of my friend John Kapelos, who’s been killed in a whole lot of movies and TV shows, including “Justified”, and by my own hands in my movie The Beneficiary.

As for comedy, John, who came up in Second City, is hall-of-fame talented. He’s now started a podcast that harkens back to the glory days of Second City, loaded with sketches and jokes and characters voiced by John. Wait’ll you hear his production skills. You may want to pop an Ambien.

Check it out here, download it at iTunes, thank me later.

A Few Thoughts To Kick Off Your Monday.

Political correctness is unfortunately at an all-time high, but one group will always be fair game. Check out my neighbor’s redneck plunger.

I swear Ricky smiles for every pic.

If anyone’s wondering what to get me for my birthday next month, a bar in Indiana has urinals made out of former kegs.

Well Played, Pods.com.

Placing my neighbor’s pod at the perfect angle on my driveway so that I can’t park. I may upperdeck your toilet.

If I Haven’t Convinced You Yet To Join Me…

I donate blood every eight weeks, just so I'm less and less related to some of my relatives.

If You Say So.

Remember When I Said Flying United Was Like Flying A Drunk Goose?

31 Seconds Of March.

I’m going to adopt a teenage boy and Truman Show him into believing he’s a documentarian.

Until then, I’ll video my own life, one second per day. Click below for the month of March.

Side note: while I usually chose throwback tunes for these, I went with the current hit “My House”, by Flo Rida, which I loved cranking as I walked around New York.) Put in your earbuds and turn it way up:

If You’re Gonna Tag A Boat…

…how do you not include the words “I’M ON A BOAT”?

The Sanctity Of Marriage.

As evidenced by the In N Out truck catering this wedding.

Reflections On The City Of New York.

A Halloween poster on a phone booth? You stay relevant, Manhattan.

Nothing says a Sunday train ride to see your mom like smeared blood.

My cabbie is going to revamp the attitude and stench of the city. I just know it.

New York’s Only Redeeming Feature (Besides My Mom): An iPhone™ Photo Gallery.

It’s a weird feeling when you watch the Yankees so much that you notice when a player gets a haircut between games.

The Yanks are my spirit animal. And since opening day happened to fall yesterday while I was in New York, I got a boner, and then a kickass seat to the game.

With a game-time temp of 36°, I wore eight layers of clothing (11 if you include two pairs of underwear and jeans). To escape the cold for a few minutes pregame, I ducked into the Yankee museum, where the display featuring a ball signed by every Yankee ever has grown to herculean proportions.

I couldn’t figure out why, among the bats, balls and jerseys up for an auction benefiting charity, was a Star Wars autograph. Different species of nerds, Yanks.

One of the birthday wishes on the big screen was to a guy named Vinny Romano. I wondered, in a stadium in the Bronx, how many guys had that name. My friend Rob guestimated 1,849.

The freezing conditions resulted in a contrasting set of lines for ice cream and hot soup.

New Yorkers are pussies.

The Original Blog Post Has Been Postponed Due To Inclement Weather.

Rain. 30° temperature. The day I just described is worse than Pearl Harbor – the movie.

That day happened yesterday here in New York, killing the ability to do anything outside.

I was cheered-up though by the ingenuity of the city worker who used a discarded plastic bag to keep his dreads dry. Like a boss.

We try again today.

Spoonin’.

My circle of friends is 80% actual dogs. Family, too.

I had a free day yesterday, so I took the train out to see my mom. She was showing a house in the afternoon, so Ollie Shevin and I got in an extended nap.

It was nice to get out. Freezing cold, with frost on the ground, but my mom and I had a nice dinner before I took nap #2 and came back into the city.

Extra kickass schedule today, which I can’t wait to blog out. See you tomorrow.

You’re My Boy, JetBlue.

Whenever I travel to New York, I always forget something. Like how stupid it is to travel to New York.

It NEVER stops raining here. So naturally, JFK Airport had to shut down temporarily last night when it became torrential, and my plane wasn’t allowed to land. We were diverted for three hours to Stewart Airport in Newburg, NY.

Stewart is so small, TSA goes home at 5 p.m., so we sat on the runway and were told that if we got off the plane, we wouldn’t be allowed back on. Some passengers panicked and got off , trying to Uber it to Manhattan. The rest of us mingled in an awkward cocktail party.

JetBlue was as accommodating as it could be. They even emailed us, apologizing, and offered a discount on our next flight, even though it wasn’t their fault. But my favorite thing was when a dog on the plane needed to be walked, but its owner wasn’t allowed to leave, So the pilot took the dog out for a walk.

That’s JetBlue. My airline.

Unofficial, Unpaid Spokesman.

Flying United is like hitching a ride with a guy who brutally murders hitchhikers after they give him 600 bucks for gas and Doritos.

Flying JetBlue, however, is a dream, with all the free snacks and drinks you want in a nifty cooler in the middle of the plane.

Flying United is like flying a drunk goose.

Flying JetBlue is comfy, with big, leather seats and free WiFi.

WiFi is $31 on United.

Flying United is like living downstairs at Downton Abbey.

JetBlue somehow figured out a way to make going through TSA at their terminals super fast.

Flying United out of JFK is like 311’s music built a terminal and also ran an airline.

I’m on a JetBlue flight this morning. Thank Jesus.